On Gratitude

     Yesterday the UPS man rang the doorbell and left a package from a well known, open 24 hour every day, purveyor of all things needed to live in Maine.  I hadn't ordered anything, so of course I was curious.. It was a knitted toque (some of you may know it as a ski-hat) with a multi-colored pom-pom on top.  The hat itself is multi-colored, with the name of the merchandizer worked into the "cuff" and the silhouette of three pine trees in the main body of the hat.  There was only one thing missing in the package; the name of the sender.

      Since I have a good friend who lives in Maine (actually several of them) and she knows that I love the novels of Lousie Penny, set in a mythical village named Three Pines, I contacted her first:  "It seems to me that the combination of B***s and 3 Pines is suggestive.  Is it you I should thank for my snuggly toque?"

     Her response:  "Someone sent you a hat?  It was not I."  My friends know I love good grammar.

     I went to the next likely suspect, the dear friend who introduced me to Penny's work, who has been a cherished support during several hellish years.  She was the first to "Like" the picture of the hat I had put on social media.  "Is it you I may thank for my toque?"

     "I wish!!!!!

     "What a lovely gift!"

    I responded, "Hmmmm...now I am truly stumped."

    "Perhaps it is meant to stay a secret!"

    "It is an interesting feeling to be indebted to someone unknown."

     I used "interesting" because I wasn't sure exactly how I felt.  Perhaps "unsettling" is a better word, because while I am a believer in and preacher of grace, I am also well-schooled in doing what is "right", and maintaining social balance.  A gift requires one to say "Thank you."  The civility of society hangs on remembering "the niceties."  

    EXCURSUS:  Once when we had been married about 10 years my husband received an unsigned valentine in the mail.  We did not recognize the handwriting of the address, the postmark was unhelpful, and we asked everyone we thought might have sent it, only to have them deny initiating the card.  It didn't bother me in the sense that I was jealous.  I've always been quite secure in his love and faithfulness.  It was the mystery that gnawed at me.  Twenty-five years later I still think of it ocassionally:  Who?  Why?  I (on the otherhand) have never received a secret valentine, nor even one that surprised me, yet here I am with a hat.  "Perhaps it is meant to stay a secret."  In my mind, I hear my parents fake crooning "Ooonce I had a secret LOOOOOOOVE..."

     It is unsettling.  Yet it occurs to me that we are all the recipients of others' generosity, the offerings of givers unknown to us.  My granddaughter has cancer.  She has received numerous transfusions of blood and platelets.  Some of them (a small fraction) came from friends and family.  Most of them came from people we will never know, who literally gave of themselves for strangers.  There is a man in Rochester, NY who has given 469 units of blood over the years and who donates platelets twice a month.  He is a hero.

     Those of us who received a public education did so, in part, through the taxes of those who had no children, or whose children were grown and gone long before we entered Kindergarten.  How often do we say thank you?

     It seems to me as if we feel we need to ignore the gifted-ness of our lives in order to maintain our own equilibrium as well as that of society.  For some of us just receiving a gift is hard enough.  To receive without some way of regaining the "proper" maintenance of relationships leaves us uneasy; a least it does me.

     I tried one more possibile gifter:  "Is it you to whom I owe thanks for my wonderful hat?"

     "Not I.  But I wish I had"

     It occurs to me - how fortunate am I, to have a number of friends I know would do something so sweet and generous?  And there are those who have shown their love and caring in other ways, by creating a web of love and support that not only makes my world better, but which creates Good in the world.

     While writing this I thought of someone else who purchases from the people who drive around in a big hunting boot.  "Did YOU send my hat?"

     "I don't know what that means."  

     So I will respect your privacy and accept my unknowing and dis-equilibrium if that's what you wish.  But know this:  I am deeply grateful for your love and generosity - and for the hat.

    

Where You Least Expect It

Today's lectionary reading was from Job.  I was a little uneasy when I saw that...there have been so many bad sermons preached on Job and I had no idea who this preacher is.  He decided to go with Jesus and the Rich Young Ruler (and did a great job with it, by the way).  But I was struck by the reading from Job...It was Job's complaint.
"Today my complaint is bitter; his hand is heavy despite my groaning.  Oh, that I knew where I might find him, that I might come even to his dwelling...If I go forward, he is not there; or backward, I cannot perceive him; on the left he hides, and I cannot behold him; I turn to the right, but I cannot see him.  But he knows the way that I take; when he has tested me I shall come out like gold." (Job 23:1a, 8-10).

I had a flash of recognition there -- I do a lot of complaining about what God allows to happen.  But I heard something new in Job's complaint...that he cannot find God looking ahead or behind, to the left or to the right.  I've been going through a period of spiritual dryness lately.  I think I had gotten to a place, not of being burned out, but of being empty, having poured myself out and poured myself emotionally and spiritually, without having taking the time to refill myself.  I've been feeling the absence of God.  It doesn't frighten me, because I know everyone has dry spells, but it's not a comfortable place to be.  I know that I need to reshape the practices I use to keep myself connected to the Spirit - I'm not doing regular worship and sermon preparation, regular disciplined Bible study.  I need to figure out how to do that in retirement.

But Job was a good reminder, that God is not before or behind us, not to the left or the right.  God is here, right here, right now.  The Presence is in the Present.  Where we are, right here, right now.

In Praise of Winter

 When you get a license plate in Florida one of the "personalized" plate options is one that shows the silhouette of a surfer and the words "Endless Summer".  

Endless Summer - wasn't that the title of a Beach Boys album?  It was what we dreamed of as kids, a time when we had no school, no obligations, and we could do whatever we pleased. We could ride our bikes to the park or to Carvel for an ice cream cone. We could play kickball and four-square in the street, just moving out of the way for the occasional car that came our way, driving slowly, because the neighbors were the only folks who drove those streets and they knew we would be there.  

I dreamed of Endless Summer as I trudged to classes in snowy Ohio and the blizzards of Rochester, NY.  I dreamed of Endless Summer when I began work in Wisconsin, where it hit -29 degrees farenheit with a windchill factor of -78 the first winter I was there.  I dreamed of Endless Summer living in upstate New York when we got more than 210 inches of snow one winter or the winter when it snowed Every. Single. Day. in February.  Sometimes just flurries, but still snow.  

When we retired and moved to Florida I almost got the Endless Summer license plate, but my innate cheapness kicked in (I don't want to pay extra money for a license plate for heaven's sake!).  And then I lived it.  Now, let it be said that I've been in Florida in January when it was quite chilly, and I remember stories of frozen orange trees when I was a youth.  Not exactly surfing weather.  But Floridians know the Northerners because they are the ones who go swimming in December, and while there may have been a week or so when you'd have to be crazy to go in the ocean ( heated pools are always accessible!), it was hardly Winter the way I had experienced it most of my life.   

I discovered Endless Summer was not what I expected.

I thought I would be able to spend Endless Summer playing.  I was semi-retired and we lived within walking distance of the beach.  But I spent my time working and cleaning and rarely got to the beach more than once a week.  

I missed the seasons you have up North - fall and spring, which are really only possible because of winter. I could garden year round, which was a plus.  And I actually planted a store-bought pointsettia in my garden in January and it had red bracts the next Christmas!  I had jasmine blossoming by my front door. But I couldn't grow peonies or lilacs, two of my favorites.  It simply didn't get cold enough for them.  Crape Myrtle looks like lilac, but it doesn't have that perfume that infuses the air.  I  missed the autumnal foliage.  We had trees that lost leaves (at least our neighbors did.  We had no trees, but their dead leaves littered our lawn), but they just dried up and dropped without ever changing color.  I missed that season of rest that winter provides for a gardener -- those months where you can just dream and plan, when you don't have to weed or trim  I  missed the thrill of spring's first signs, when bulbs burst through the ground and the buds of trees and shrubs almost replicate the colors of fall.  

 And I missed the cold.  I love the warm, textured clothing of cold weather, woolen sweaters, cordaroy. pants, and velour dresses.  I love sleeping in flannel sheets, under a down comforter.  You can do that in Florida, of course, but you have to crank the air conditioner really high and electricity is expensive down there.   After five years of Endless Summer I was ready to move back North, and I was rewarded last year with a lot of snow and solid cold days.  This year has been relatively mild for Pennsylvania, but this morning I was walking to the mail box and was startled to realize I like the cold.  I really do.  My Florida friends surely think I'm crazy.  My friend Mary puts on a puffer coat when the temperature hits 70.  But while I enjoy visiting Paradise, Endless Summer is just too long for me.  I'll have a bit of Winter, please.

Made for Love

 I get a daily meditation from the Center for Action and Contemplation.  Most are written by Fr. Richard Rohr, though many are by other writers, and they are geared to take the participant deeper into a full spiritual life.  Today's can be summed up as"God is Trinity, that is to say, God is in God's very nature, relational.  To say we are made in God's image is to say that we were made to be in relationship."  The phrase that caught my eye was "We were made for love."  

I also believe that we were made to love, both as recipients and as initiators of loving relationships.  It is the purpose for which we were created.  It is in our spiritual DNA, the mitochondria which carries the Divine image.  We get into trouble when we try to limit love to one person, to our family, our tribe, our nation.  Our relationships may require differing degrees of personal responsibility, but love given away grows; love limited becomes mishapen, grotesque.  

This week we celebrate Epiphany, the revelation of God's self in the Incarnation.  We cannot see God in another unless we look with the eyes of love.  We cannot dismiss others without dismissing the truth that they, too, are beloved of God. 

Chasing a Dream

 There's a Facebook meme that asks, "If you followed your first dream as a child, what would you be doing today?"  It's probably a phishing scheme.  It seems like everything is these days.  But I don't remember ever using it as a security answer, because I really couldn't figure out an answer to the question until today.  And I realized (remembered?) that my first dream of what I would be growing up was to be a writer.  I read Little Women by Louisa May Alcott about 10 times before I was 12 and I wanted to be Jo.  I wanted to be a writer.  

I took an Advanced Writing course in college.  I dropped it before the end of the term.  Friends related stories of me wandering the residence hall at one in the morning, grabbing them by the shoulders and demanding, "Give me an idea of something to write about!"  The advice to write about what you know didn't seem to work.  I couldn't think of anything I knew that anyone would care to read. (And yes, when I speak, I often end the sentence with a preposition).

But I did grow up to be a writer.  I wrote weekly sermons and prayers.  I wrote articles for newsletters.  I created lessons for Bible studies and retreats and Adult Christian Education classes.  If I put together all the things I created over 34 years it would probably be the length of two or maybe even three novels.  I just never thought of myself as a writer.

I haven't been doing that work for sometime now, though, and I miss it.  So I've decided to write more this year.  I'm going to discipline myself to write here regularly.  I'm going to work on a novel (I have titles and starting ideas for three of them, I just don't know where the stories go).  If I'm honest, my childhood dream was to be a world-famous writer and this page is NOT going to get me there.  I'd also love to sell the movie rights to a novel so I could leave my kids a nice inheritance, but writers of my age without a track rrecord are more likely to have to spend money to self-publish than they are to be picked up by an agent or publisher.  Ah, well.  It is the being that counts.  And to be a writer you must write.  So here I go!

Shevelled, Whelmed, and Recombobulated

 For most of my life I have been disshevelled.  

My hair never did what I wanted.  It was short when long straight hair was fashionable.  It was straight when curly hair was "in".  My roots began to show about a week after I colored it.   I had adolescent acne for much longer than most folks -- I actually had pimples and wrinkles simultaneously.  Even on days when I felt like I looked okay (few and far between) I had clothes that got stained by some mysterious source, or wrinkled, or that just didn't fit right.  My shoes were scuffed.  My stockings ran.  My mascara smudged.  I felt like I was fighting the inevitable chaos of the Universe just trying to get out the door in the morning.

Many times in my life I have been overwhelmed.  I'm  naturally an introvert and on the shy side (though I'm well trained enough to deal with people that many folks are surprised when I tell them this).  I've gone completely blank performing in a piano recital.  I took heavy course loads in my studies.  I accepted leadership roles for extroverts in organizations I joined (Rush Chair for the sorority?  Sure!).  In my personal life I was deeply disappointed romantically, and even early on in my relationship with the Beloved there were some very rough patches where I despaired of ever being with a life partner.  Then we dealt with infertility, and adoption, and adolescences.  Real adolescent issues.  Lawyers were involved. I had one particularly difficult professional situation and all of my professional life required a vulnerability that could be exhausting.  My mother used to scold us when we would try to make "a lazy man's load" of  a task -- trying to carry too many things so we only had to make one trip instead of two, and then dropping things because it really was too much.  I regularly tried to do a lazy man's load in my life.   There were times when the despair got so deep that I needed both a therapist and medications.  

Lately many of us have been discombobulated.  Hence my 18 months of silence.  We moved at the start of the pandemic and our young granddaughter was diagnosed with cancer.  We 've spent the last 18 months in transit, never really having a chance to settle down, trying to juggle the emotional tasks of moving into my Mom's home, helping our children deal with their daughter's medical needs and the daily needs of their other children and EVERYBODY'S emotional needs.  And since they live three hours away by car it's sometimes hard to know who and what is where,  when we are needed, what we can and can't plan on.  The short answer is don't plan on anything.  Additionally we have all had to learn new patterns of social interactions.  We have to remember to carry (and put on) a mask any time we leave our "bubble" -- when someone you love is undergoing chemo you take no chances.  I'm still trying to fit the stuff I was unwilling to let go of into our space here and as a result things are not stored in "logical" places but in places available and where they would fit.  Additionally, in retirement the Beloved has seriously taken up cooking, but does not organize a kitchen in a way that makes sense to me.  Trying to accomplish certain tasks requires a scavenger hunt.  Nothing is where it "should" be.  

Disshevelled.  Overwhelmed. Discombobulated.

But while I was driving yestserday, trying to finish up my Christmas preparations, I realized that there has been a shift.  I think it happened when the earring appeared yesterday morning.  

I have a habit of leaving things at the top or bottom of the stairs when they need to go up or down and I'm nor ready to make the trip just yet.  There's usually more on the bottom stair then at the top, and there was a pile of papers that had waited several days to make their trip on high.  I had looked at the pile when I went down in the morning, then walked past it on my way upstairs to get dressed for the day, then sat on the stairs to put on my shoes on my way out the door.  I glanced at the papers and there, on top sat a gold earring that has been missing for MONTHS.  Honestly.  I was looking for it around my early autumn birthday because these earrings had been a birthday gift and I wanted to wear them and could only find one.  I seearched everywhere and the partner was nowhere to be found.  I debated getting rid of it, but it's sentimental so I put it back in the jewelry box.  

Yet there it was, on the stairs.  I hadn't been IN the jewelry box.  I hadn't thought about those earrings for months.  It had NOT been there when I came down in the morning, yet there it sat, right in the middle of that pile of papers.  I asked the Beloved.  He had no idea what I was talking about.  Mom is out of the country.  It's just us.  I can't explain it.

But it got me thinking.  There is magic, there is grace, there is joy in my life.  I'm finally at a happy weight after a lifetime of yo-yo dieting and never reaching my goal (in the chaos of the last 18 months what I put in my mouth was the one thing I could control).  I decided to let my hair go natural and strangers are complementing me on the grey with my silver Covid stripe.  Then dermatologist who removed a small cancer cell from my eyebrow told me my hair was beautiful.  I'm telling people the scar from the surgery came from a duel.  At least twice when I have gone out bundled up against the cold strangers have stopped me and told me I look beautiful.  

Our granddaughter is in remission.  We have purchased a place that is  "ours" - we'll continue to stay with Mom, but now have a get-away when she needs time away from us or we need time away from her. It's not too far and it's a bit closer to our kids.   Our daughter and her husband have purchased and moved into their first home, no longer dependent on the whims of landlords.  Both of our children are responsible adults, good parents, and they make us proud.  We are learning how to be in ACTUAL retirement and how to enjoy our life.

We are making a list of what will live in the getaway, which will give things a home where we don't constantly have to shift boxes around to get to necessary items.  There will be space freed up.  We will be able to use items we love rather than storing them.  It is December 23 and I will complete my Christmas preparations today after a week of easy preparations.  There are one or two more packages to wrap and one batch of traditional cookies to make.  Easy peasy.  And yesterday after finding the magic earring (it's partner is NOT in the jewelry box, so it must be the one I had -- but how it made its way OUT of the box and down the stairs is a mystery!) I realized that I am in a good place.  It made me think of a meme I saw of the area just beyond TSA security at the Milwaukee airport.  It's got a large sign that says "RECOMBOBULATION AREA".

Shevelled.  Whelmed.  Recombobulated.  

Merry Christmas.

I Take You

When I was a freshly-minted, just out of seminary pastor, my mentor sat down with me to go over what he felt was a modernized wedding ceremony.  Let me say this clearly: it was the 1980s and there was a lot of discussion everywhere about hidden and explicit patriarchy.  We never used the changes without talking to the bride and groom about it first and if they were dead set on a "traditional" service we did it.  I talked about discarding "Dearly Beloved" in my last post.  We encouraged them to have both families give their blessing to the marriage rather than having the bride's father "give her away" like a possession.  And in the vows we encouraged them to replace "I take you to be my husband/wife" with "I give myself to you to be your wife/husband."

The reasoning behind it was sound.  The idea is that you are not taking the other person as a possession, but giving yourself to them in relationship.  It reflects the self-giving love that promises itself unconditionally.  That's important in marriage because, let's face it, we all have times when it's only our partner's commitment to the relationship that keeps it together.  That time may last only a second or two or it may last a year or two, but every marriage has them.  And most brides and grooms agreed with us on that.  My husband and I used that form when we married.

But recently I came across a poem that made me rethink this.  It is called "The Wedding Vow" by Sharon Olds and because I do not have rights to it, I refer you to it below for the entire poem.  It's also found by Googling Sharon Olds poems.  Please look it up and read it.  It ends:

... And then it was time

to speak -he was offering me, no matter

what, his life. That is all I had to

do, that evening, to accept the gift

I had longed for, - to say I had accepted it,

as if being asked if I breathe. Do I take?

I do. I take as he takes - we have been

practicing this. Do you bear this pleasure? I do. *

In marriage we do not just give ourselves.  We have to accept the gift of the other person, to accept them, to welcome them into our lives, our beings, and, yes, to take them as they are .  It is a powerful thing to recognize that another is publicly offering their life to us, and to acknowledge publicly that this one is our dearly beloved.  For better or for worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health; to forge between us something that cannot exist without both of us.  

On June 3 my dearly beloved and I will celebrate 36 years of holding each other's hearts and lives in our hands.  How grateful I am for him!  What amazing, gracious love he has offered me.  How glad I am that I was smart enough to accept it, to receive it, to bear it  as we have shared the journey through life together.

*"The Wedding Vow" by Sharon Olds from The UnsweptRoom. © Alfred A. Knopf, 2003.